


Crash Into Me And Send Me Spinning In Circles

by LainellaFay



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Father/Son Incest, Kind of really really post-canon, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Some Humor, Thranduil is complicated, because of some elven history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 23:17:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LainellaFay/pseuds/LainellaFay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re my father.” <i>Our blood is one</i>, Legolas thinks.</p>
<p>The smile on Thranduil’s face is breathtaking and heartbreaking at the same time. “That does not mean it is always enough.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crash Into Me And Send Me Spinning In Circles

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings / Hobbit**
> 
> Note: NO UNDERAGE SEX. Legolas is 16/17 in this fic. It is set in Australia, and the age of consent in Australia is 16/17 - it is 16 in the state I have set them in. ([source](https://aifs.gov.au/cfca/publications/age-consent-laws))
> 
> Just something that ballooned into something it really shouldn't, but did.
> 
> Beta'd by the ever lovely [NightHerald](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NightHerald/pseuds/NightHerald) and I thank her for all the help she has given me <3

**.  
**

**.**

**.**

 

The next time someone talks about life-changing events, Legolas knows exactly what he would say. His came in a grey tailor fitted suit with a maroon-brown tie and a crystal tie pin. Long silver-gold hair cascaded down the trimmed figure and Legolas could clearly describe each of the multiple decorative rings that adorned slender fingers. His life-changer had swept into the homely Singaporean family restaurant Legolas worked in with a black briefcase and a grim smile.

The man had strode up to the counter where Legolas had stood—wearing a white-turned-dirty-grey apron with exactly _thirteen_ brown tea-stains and an awkward smile, and had slammed the briefcase onto the surface. Legolas remembers the exact three seconds it took for startling blue eyes to glance down at his nametag, up at his face, and into his soul. He remembers the exact pronunciation and emphasis of the man’s first—and to be honest, the most important—sentence.

“It has come to my attention that I am your father.”

Legolas had blinked. Once, twice, three times. “Excuse me?”

 

-

 

“So it had never crossed _either_ of your minds to tell me that I am adopted?”

Father—no, not Father anymore, is he?—exchange glances with not-Mother. Legolas angrily paces in front of the sofa, mumbling furiously to himself. Thranduil, the guy who’s apparently his _actual_ father, lounges coolly on the armchair, just observing the scene.

Legolas is absolutely _pissed_. Absolutely, extremely, so very, _very_ pissed.

“What the fuck are you here for anyway?” he demands from Thranduil.

Thranduil merely tilts his head to the side and raises a single eyebrow— _what the_ fuck _? That’s_ his _move!_ Legolas feels his jaw drop. The artful manoeuvre Legolas had practiced in front of the bathroom mirror for four years so easily executed by this—this _overdressed ponce!_

“Isn’t that the—“ not-Father starts but Legolas cuts him off with an ‘ _I fucking know, shut up’_ glare.

“Is it not obvious?” Thranduil says. “I’m here to collect my son.”

At this, not-Father presses his lips into a thin line and not-Mother gasps. Legolas is certain his brain is flopping somewhere like a dying fish on the carpet because he is incapable of processing any information. Legolas’ adoptive father frowns and shakes his head. “Legolas is _our_ son. Not biologically, no, but he is our son nevertheless. You do not have the rights to take him away from his family.”

But Thranduil only smirks and pulls out a folder from his briefcase. “These are the papers,” he says, throwing it onto the coffee table with a _thump_. Thranduil sternly faces Legolas. “Get your belongings. I would like to be home by the end of the week.” 

His brain floundering up the length of his body and back within his skull, Legolas exclaims, “The hell I’m going with you. You have no right to take me away from my home!”

“The papers say otherwise, _darling_.” Thranduil rolls the ‘r’ with a sickening smile that makes Legolas cringe. He flicks his wrist to reveal a sleek, sliver watch. “You have four hours. I will arrange the plane bookings.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Hold up. _Plane bookings_?”

“Obviously. How else are we meant to go to Melbourne?”

“What do you _mean_ you live in Melbourne?” Legolas flails his hands about. His head is swimming, and he feels as if he’s running around like a headless chicken. “I am _not_ moving across _states_! Scratch that. I am _not_ moving _anywhere_! Period!”

“H-how is—how is this possible?” not-Mother cries out, her palm forming a cup around her lips. Legolas’ adoptive parents are bent over scrutinising the documents, trying to find any hint of falsehood or loopholes. They are aghast, unable to find either. “You cannot take my boy away!”

Tears roll down her cheeks and Legolas feels his lips tremble. “Mummy,” he wails, like a little boy all over again. He drops to his knees and wraps his arms around her waist, relishing in the comfort he has always received in her embrace.

“Leave, just leave us.” Legolas hears his adoptive father say. He burrows his head into his mother’s—no, adoptive mother’s—stomach, as if the act will remove the truth from the universe.

“I will be back on Friday,” Thranduil announces. “You know how to contact me.”

The front door slams closed, but there is a gaping hole in Legolas’ heart.

 

-

 

“I don’t want to go.”

“I do not want you to go either, honey.” Warm, familiar hands cup the sides of his face. Legolas closes his eyes and leans into the touch. “But the law has spoken, we do not have the means to keep you away from your real father.”

“Can’t we just break the law?”

His adoptive mother dryly laughs. “I really wish we could, Legolas. Oh, my dear, sweet boy.” She embraces him tightly and Legolas feels another bout of tears coming round the bend. “When you turn eighteen, Legolas, eighteen; you will no longer be legally required to remain with him. If you so wish, and oh, I’m so very selfish but I hope you do, if you ever so wish to return to us, our door is always open for you.”

“But that’s two years away!”

“We will visit you as often as we can. I will call you every night. It will be as if you never left,” she says through a wobbly smile. “You are my brave little boy.

“Really?”

“Really.”

 

-

 

“What arrangements did you make with your foster parents?”

Legolas sits on one of the two suitcases stuffed full with his belongings—the rest is to be shipped over—with a permanent scowl on his face. The queue moves and Legolas kicks one suitcase forwards with his feet and drags the other with his bum, dutifully ignoring Thranduil’s question. Thranduil sighs loudly. He grabs Legolas by the arm and hauls him onto his feet. Legolas utters his disagreement but cold eyes silence him.

“It will not do for them to interfere with our bonding.”

“I am not fucking bonding with _you_.”

Thranduil’s gaze pierces through him like the deadly end of a dagger. “Calls I will allow, but visits are limited to twice a year.”

A flame ignites in Legolas; he is filled with fury. “You cannot do that!”

“Actually, my dear,” Thranduil’s smile is as dangerous as a starving Great White Shark, “I can.”

Thranduil suddenly releases him and Legolas stumbles backwards a few steps, nearly knocking over his suitcase. The demon who is apparently his biological father is metres before him, pulling the other of Legolas’ suitcases by the time Legolas found his feet.

“Don’t hold up the line,” Thranduil throws over his shoulder.

Legolas wants to _kill_ him.

 

-

 

“Why?”

Thranduil turns away from the small cabin window and asks, “Why what?”

“Why am I here? Why do you want me with you?” Legolas elaborates. “Why now?”

Thranduil is silent for a long moment. “Blood precedes all matters. Even if your mother was a major queen bitch.”

“Was?”

“She’s dead.”

Legolas wonders about the resentment in Thranduil’s tone. He dreads prodding and possibly overturning a rock he cannot handle right now, so Legolas nods and takes a sip of coffee.

 

-

 

Thranduil’s place—well, Legolas supposes it counts as _his_ now too—is a penthouse in a luxurious apartment building five streets away from the city centre. Thranduil lifts both Legolas’ suitcases through the front entrance as though they weighed no more than a feather while Legolas scrapes his shoes against the floor, trailing behind.

Footwear removed, Thranduil brings Legolas through the apartment, not bothering to show him around. Legolas rolls his eyes and wags his tongue at Thranduil’s back. They stop outside a room, so suddenly that Legolas nearly careens into the man. Thranduil drops the suitcases and gestures with a tilt of his chin.

“This is your room. Bathroom’s down the hall. My room is the one on the left,” Thranduil swiftly says.

Legolas pokes his head into the room and nods appreciatively at the simplicity in the decorations. “What, we’re sharing a bathroom?”

“Nonsense,” Thranduil immediately replies. “I have an adjoined bathroom in my bedroom. It’s late. Go to bed, we have schooling arrangements to make.” He raises a finger. “You’re heading into Year 12, are you not?” 

“I would think one of the requirements of ‘bonding with your son’ is to know my age,” Legolas quips, but at Thranduil’s look, he adds, “Yes.”

“Good.”

 

-

 

Legolas isn’t really quite sure what to make of his entirely new life; one moment he’s working part-time in Perth; the next, he’s in Melbourne with a different surname, new home, new school, and his bastard— _fucking lawyers_ —of a biological father.

The apartment is too quiet, Thranduil forces him to do half of the housework, and Legolas is _drained_. The second day with Thranduil, Legolas had faced the front door for over an hour, contemplating sending a massive _fuck you_ to the bastard and running out of the door and into the wild, and if possible, all the way back to Perth. But even he had to be rational; he was sixteen, he had only so much money in his bank account, and he had nowhere to run to; for every place he could think of—Thranduil would be able to find him. 

Apart from meal times, Thranduil is easy to avoid. The man is usually holed up in his study, pouring over case files and whatnot, leaving Legolas free reign over the rest of the apartment. Thranduil hasn’t initiated any ‘bonding’ of any kind like he mentioned in the airport and for that, Legolas is half grateful, half annoyed. Thranduil is distant, and as much as Legolas _hates_ to admit it, he kind of wishes he wasn’t. Call it madness, but Legolas misses the warmth of family, and as he is so far away from the only family he had known for sixteen years, Thranduil is the only available option. 

“Mum?” _I want to go home_ , he doesn’t say, but it can be heard in his tone anyways.

Thank heavens for the daily calls, or Legolas is certain he would be off his rocker right there and then.

 

-

 

“Who was she?” The curiosity burns through Legolas and the words are out before he can think otherwise.

Thranduil removes his cup of morning coffee from between his lips. “Who?”

“My biological mother.”

“What do you want to know?”

Legolas shrugs. He sucks on a slice of orange and peels the skin away. “Everything?”

Thranduil sighs. He shifts in the dining chair and grabs two pieces of toast from plate on the middle of the table. “She was a friend of my cousin’s. I was young and easily sucked in by lust.”

“How old were you?”

“I was sixteen.” Thranduil pauses, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as he thinks. “She was twenty-two.”

Legolas gapes. He can feel orange juice dripping from the tips of his fingers but he ignores it, focusing only on the new information being processed in his head. “You were _my_ _age_ when you had me?” he half-shouts.

“Yes, that appears to be the case,” Thranduil coolly replies, resuming the process of buttering his toast.

“What the fuck,” Legolas can only state. “What the fuck.”

“Your mouth is equivalent of a trash dump, darling.” 

“Fuck, I cannot believe this.” Legolas ignores his father’s words, pressing sticky fingers against his cheeks. “So you’re like—thirty-two—“

“Thirty-three. Don’t forget the length of gestation.”

“—gesta- _what_?” Legolas shakes his head. “Never mind. What the fuck. My brain hurts.” 

“Finish your breakfast, Legolas.”

Legolas slumps against the back of his chair. “Oh, this is madness. So—so you, you never got married? I’m basically a bastard? Is that how it is?”

“I would have to be dead before I marry that woman,” Thranduil snorts.

“How did you two—y’know—“ Legolas finishes the rest of the question with a series of quick hand movements.

“She was a succubus and I was sixteen, fill in the blanks, my dear.”

“Why do you hate her so much?”

“There are too many reasons. Legolas. Even the name she had given you is a taunt to my face.”

Legolas sticks his index finger into his mouth to suck up the sticky remains of the orange juice. His tongue swirls around the slender digit. “What makes you think she named me?”

“It cannot be your foster parents. Legolas is _Sindarin_ for ‘greenleaf’, only she would be the one to think of it.” The look Thranduil makes when he glances up sends a shiver all the way down to Legolas’ toes.

“ _Sindarin_?”

“The language of our people, darling.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well,” Thranduil pauses for dramatic flare, “of course you wouldn’t. There are only a few of us left.”

 

-

 

Being a new kid in school always _sucks_. Legolas’ only consolation is that he entered at the start of the year, where there are a few others in the same boat as he is, so at least he isn’t being scrutinised under a microscope like some science project. But he is alone, and has to memorise the layout of the school like a fucking Year 8 all over again. _Christ_.

During his first two periods, Legolas thinks, _alright I can do this, go into the classroom, find a goddamn seat and just sit through it_. Unlike Year 8 however, almost every student has their own clique, their ‘groupie’, and it is really difficult to talk to them. Break One creeps up and Legolas sits alone in the quad, tearing into the sandwich Thranduil left on the kitchen counter for him, and curses his father for wrecking his life and his ability to make a fucking excellent teriyaki chicken sandwich.

His phone vibrates in his pocket and Legolas surveys his surroundings, watchful of the teachers on supervising duty. Confident that no one is taking notice of the student in the corner of the quad, hiding behind the giant potted plant, Legolas whips out his phone and reads the messages Aragorn sent him.

Rolling his eyes at Aragorn’s dramatic and woeful texts about heading back to school, Legolas’ fingers flies over the screen as he types a reply: _I’m already IN school, dumbass. Tell me who you have for English, and hear me laugh if you get Mr. Jones._

The bell rings, signalling the end of the break and Legolas tucks his phone back into his pocket. He throws the used cling wrap towards the waste bin ten steps away and punches his fist in the air when his shot flies true. There is an overwhelming feeling of separation but Legolas clenches his jaw, shoulders his backpack, and uses the map on the back of his school journal to find his next class. It isn’t until the end of the school day that Legolas see Aragorn’s reply: _NOOO! you jinxed me you asshole im gonna zzz in english man fuck gimli that bastard got mrs murphy fuck him._

 

-

 

Legolas folds his arms atop the back of the couch. There is a blown up photo of a man, who resembles Thranduil significantly, cradling a young child in his arms hanging against the wall above the television. He wonders if the child is Thranduil and the man his father; there is a surprising sense of peacefulness in the photo. Thranduil tucks a newspaper under his arm and gathers his papers, placing them neatly into his briefcase.

“I was wondering,” Legolas says. “How should I address you? I mean, it’ll be weird calling you ‘Dad’ because in my head I already _have_ a ‘Dad’, and Thranduil is—“ he wrinkles his nose “—weird too, like, you’re my _father_.“ Legolas rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and just barely resists the urge to sign quotation marks. “So what the hell do I call you?”

“ _Adar_.”

Legolas furrows his eyebrows. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“ _Adar_ means ‘father’ in _Sindarin_ ,” Thranduil explains as he walks out of the lounge. “Your very first _Sindarin_ lesson, _ion nín_.” His head pops back at the corner of the arched entrance to the sitting room. “And that means ‘my son’, sweetheart.”

“Wait, _lessons_?”

His father’s laughter bounces off the walls of the house, leaving Legolas feeling disgruntled and downright annoyed.

 

-

 

“I cannot do this.”

“Again, Legolas.”

“No! It’s impossible, my tongue isn’t made to roll this way!”

“ _Learn how._ Now, repeat after me—“

 

-

 

Legolas is woken up by the loud _ping_ of his phone. He groans and grapples for it on the bedside table. Legolas rubs the crust away from his eyes and squints at the bright glow of his phone screen. Aragorn; trust his friend to forget about the time difference. Legolas reads his friend’s message and angrily taps a reply back.

He flattens himself against the mattress and turns his head, so that he is facing the door. Light slips into the room through the small gap under the door. Legolas twists his lips and spins his mobile in his hand as he contemplates. Making up his mind, he throws the covers back and slides out of the bed.

The hallway is solely lit by a wall lamp just opposite Legolas’ bedroom. He glances at Thranduil’s ajar bedroom door before making his way down the hallway and around the corner. It is dimmer in this area. Legolas stares at the glow emitting behind a closed door and cautiously opens it.

His father is awake, his back to the door, bent over his desk. Files are stacked precariously atop each other on the massive wooden table, papers hanging off the edge and down on the floor. Books are removed from the multiple bookshelves and piled up so high on the carpet that one tiny push would send them crashing down like a landslide. Legolas hesitates at the doorway, peering left and right.

“You should be in bed,” his father says. Thranduil did not even lift his head up from his work.

“Yeah, well.” Legolas shrugs. He scratches the back of his neck. “I was. But this is what happens when your friend decides to wake you up in the middle of the night.”

“What do you need?”

Legolas frowns at his father’s tone. He glances down at his phone in his hand and asks, “Is it okay if Aragorn comes over during the semester break? Just for a week or so.”

“Is that all? What about your foster parents?” Thranduil’s voice is strained, his body tense, in a way Legolas thinks probably isn’t from the stress at work.

Legolas averts his eyes from his father’s back and answers, “Just Aragorn. As far as I know.” Cold silence follows. Slightly uncomfortable, Legolas retreats. “I’ll just—“ He points back down the corridor “—go back to bed now. Um, goodnight.”

Just as he is about to slink out of Thranduil’s office, his father stops him with a call of his name. 

Legolas stiffens. “Yeah?”

“This is your…second? Third week of school?”

“Third.” 

“How are you finding it?” 

Legolas bites his lips. “Good, good,” he awkwardly answers. 

Thranduil nods. Legolas hears the scratching of a pen tip against paper and wonders if that counts as a dismissal when his father says, “Sleep well, darling.”

Legolas automatically nods, despite his father not being able to see the gesture, and quickly shuts the door, running from the scene like he has demons snapping at his heels. He doesn’t stop until he is back in the safety of his room.

“What the hell was that about?” he mutters into the darkness.

 

-

 

Legolas trudges into the kitchen, fingers tucked underneath his T-shirt, scratching furiously at an itch. He yawns without a care in the world. It is twenty past four in the morning and Thranduil stands by the bench top, scooping large mouthfuls of fried rice with a spoon. 

“Hungry?” his father asks, pointing at the frying pan. Leftover rice still lie steaming in the pan.

“Starved,” Legolas answers. He grabs a plate from the cupboard and fills it. Legolas takes a bite and lets out a blissful moan at the deliciousness of the meal. “What are you doing up?”

“Shouldn’t _I_ be the one asking that question?” Thranduil’s tone is that of amusement.

“You decided to skip dinner yesterday and conveniently forgot about me—who, by the way, _needs_ dinner. So what do you think?” Legolas grumbles. “My stomach woke me up, obviously. And you call yourself my father.”

“Oh, my dear. You have to learn to take care of yourself.”

Legolas snorts. “What _were_ you doing anyway?”

Thranduil raises an eyebrow. He scoops down the remaining fried rice onto Legolas’ plate and turns on the tap, rinsing the dirty dishes and frying pan in the sink. “I thought you had no interest in my affairs.”

“Not if it causes me to miss a meal.”

His father holds out his arms, hands covered in soap, and silently gestures to Legolas to help roll his sleeves up. “There’s a trial coming up. I was formulating the defence.”

Legolas watches Thranduil finish washing up the dishes and plays with the end of his spoon. “Why are you a lawyer?”

There is a beat of silence. “My father was a prosecutor. He believed in justice and strived to put the guilty behind bars.” Thranduil turns to smile at Legolas; it looks strained. “Come to your own conclusions, _ion nín_.”

 

-

 

“You’re coming here?” 

_“We will be staying at a nearby hotel. You will be free during the weekend, yes?”_

Legolas glances at his opened door and quickly pokes his head out, looking right, left, and right again, before shutting it with a click. He switches his mobile from one ear to the other and hisses a reply, “ _Adar—_ um, Thranduil, says you’re only allowed two visits per year, you know? Does he know you’re coming?”

_“It’ll be fine. Don’t you worry, honey. He will not see us.”_

“But Mum—“

_“We will make official visits, of course. But we can always squeeze in more without_ him _interfering. I will send you the address of the hotel later. I miss you, Legolas.”_

Legolas bites his lip. “Alright. I miss you too.”

 

-

 

“Oh my fuck! I’ve been pronouncing your name wrong the entire time!”

 

-

 

“Do I have any relatives?” Legolas twirls a pen in his hand. “Besides you of course,” he quickly adds.

“Who doesn’t?” 

Legolas purses his lips. “Alive, I mean.”

Thranduil looks over the newspaper and says, “Distant.”

Legolas throws his father an unamused glare. “Grandparents? Uncles or Aunts? Cousins?” 

“I am not going to play family tree with you, sweetheart.”

“Just the immediate ones!” Legolas pleads. “Don’t bother going into second cousins or some bullshit like that, I wouldn’t get it anyway.”

Thranduil sighs and folds the newspaper, throwing it onto the coffee table. He leans into the armchair and steeples his fingers on his lap. “Your grandfather died more than ten years ago. I have no information about the whereabouts or well-being of your grandmother. I do not have any siblings,” he says with a faintly sorrowful smile that makes Legolas’ breath hitch. “It’s just me, _ion nín_.”

“How do you not know about your mother?”

His father’s face turns grim. “I have not known since before I could walk. My mother walked out on her family.” Thranduil suddenly releases a maniacal laugh. “The same could be said for your mother.”

“You said your father was a prosecutor,” Legolas states, eager to change the subject. He really did not want a mad bastard of a biological father; just bastard is enough. “That he was good, and that he believed in justice.”

“Yes, and because of that, he’s dead.”

“What do you mean?”

Thranduil’s smile is all teeth. “Can you really not figure it out, darling?” Legolas gulps. His father drops his feet from their perch on the edge of the coffee table and flicks open the newspaper once more. “Since we’re on that topic, tell me the meaning of your grandfather’s name, Oropher.”

 

-

 

“Here.” 

A thick volume lands on his desk. Legolas jolts in his seat and whips his head away from his Chemistry textbook and towards his father. At the twinkle in his father’s bright blue eyes, Legolas slowly turns towards the hardback. Cautiously, he prods it a little with an index finger.

“It’s a _book_. It’s not going to bite,” his father drawls, and Legolas can _sense_ Thranduil rolling his eyes. 

Huffing, Legolas pushes his textbook away and flips over the cover of the untitled book. It is old—the pages are brown at the edges. “What’s this?”

“A little bit of family history,” Thranduil says. “You were interested. I figured giving this to you is more beneficial than you badgering me.” 

Legolas turns to a random page. The elegant penmanship leaves him breathless. As he takes a closer look, Legolas’ brows instantly disappears into his hairline. “It’s written in _Sindarin_ ,” he exclaims, bewildered.

“There are some translations.”

“I can’t read this!”

Thranduil grins. “Family history, darling. _Sindarin_ is part of our history.”

 

-

 

His father offers him a piece of bacon. Legolas bites into it and nods in thanks. He slinks into the dining room, and spreads his notes across the table. 

“We really ought not to make this a habit,” Thranduil’s voice drifts from the kitchen.

Legolas mumbles a reply, the gears in his brain whirling as fast as they can, trying to retain as much information as possible.

“You’ll get sick,” Thranduil says, carrying a plate of bacon and eggs in. “Young men your age should be getting their sleep. Not burning the midnight oil and cramming their study notes.”

“Where’s my share?” Legolas asks, narrowing his eyes at his father.

“Get it yourself, my sweet.”

“Fuck you.” Legolas shoves his chair back and stomps into the kitchen to grab his portion.

“When’s your paper?”

“When do _you_ think?” Legolas snaps. He checks the time on his phone—oh fuck, how is it already two in the morning?—and continues, “In seven hours, that’s when.”

“This is why you don’t procrastinate, my dear.”

 

-

 

“You know…your father is _exactly_ your type.”

“The hell you on about.” Legolas scrubs angrily at a stubborn stain on the tile. He can _feel_ Aragorn’s smugness from the distance and spares a second to flip his middle finger towards his friend. It wasn’t _his_ fault that the pasta sauce got splattered all across the kitchen tiles, but guess who has to clean up the mess?

That’s right— _Legolas_.

“I mean, he’s a guy and all, but you cannot deny all those girls you dated resemble him somewhat; dude, before this I always thought you were just a narcissist but _damn_ , never took you to have a daddy fetish.” 

“I do _not_.”

“Look for yourself."

“Technically, he was not my father.”

“I think the DNA would say otherwise, mate.” 

Legolas huffs, throwing his hands up into the air, and reluctantly yields. “Fine. Technically, I did not _know_ he is my father.”

“Now that’s a more convincing argument.”

“Go the fuck home, Longshanks.”

“Right, I’ll just pack my bags and jump on a plane right now.”

Aragorn raises his hands in surrender and starts screaming like a baby when Legolas aims the dirty cloth at his face.

It hits.

 

-

 

They lie on Legolas’ bed and gaze at the dull white ceiling. Legolas misses his childhood glow-in-the-dark star stickers and wonders if it would be possible to purchase some new ones and stick them on there. Aragorn fills him in on the new messes Gimli and himself got himself into during Legolas’ absence and Legolas interrupts and laughs at the right points, but he feels strangely lonely and disconnected. 

There is only one person Legolas can think of to place the full blame on. 

“Any chance you’ll be able to visit us? Gimli doesn’t say it, but he really misses you, mate.”

“That depends on Thranduil.”

There is a beat of silence. Legolas rhythmically taps his fingers on his belly. He feels Aragorn shift onto his side and turns his head to face his friend. “That’s one hell of a complex name,” Aragorn says lightly.

Legolas smiles. “I know. I’ve been pronouncing it wrong for _months_. It’s in this language that you’ve never heard of— _Sindarin_. _Adar—_ Thranduil forces lessons down my throat. It’s unbearable.”

Aragorn flops back onto his back. “He’s not as bad as you make him out to be. Well, besides the whole _your foster parents are only allowed to visit twice a year_ and dragging you off to Melbourne without us by your side.” 

“You haven’t been around him long enough,” Legolas scoffs. “He just dumped this massive book he says is on our family history and can you _imagine_? The _whole_ book is written in _Sindarin_ and how the fuck does he expect me to read it? All he says is _Sindarin is part of our history_ —“ Legolas exaggerates his imitation of his father “—and like that friggin’ helps!”

“Does it matter? You’ll be back with your family when you turn eighteen anyway.”

Legolas worries his lip. “Yeah. I guess so.” He plays with the hem of his jumper. “I just want to—you know, learn more about _me_.”

“I understand, mate,” Aragorn softly whispers. “I understand.”

 

-

 

Legolas stumbles through the front door and kicks his shoes off in all directions. There is a crick in his neck and Legolas hits the side of his palm across the back in an attempt to relieve the tension. Five steps in, he comes to a jerking halt, his mouth slowly parting as his gaze falls on the resting body of his father on the couch. Thranduil lies face up, his left arm drooping off the side of the couch, fingertips brushing against the soft carpet. His tall, slender body is too long for the length of the sofa, causing his feet to drape over the armrest and dangle in the air.

Even with his cheeks sunken and bags under his eyes from exhaustion, Legolas cannot help but think for the first time: _Thranduil is beautiful_.

 

-

 

“You never did answer me when I asked _why now_?” Thranduil blinks and smirks around the rim of the coffee cup. Legolas waves a fork in the air and squirts another lump of maple syrup onto his stack of pancakes. His mouth still full of the gooey yumminess, Legolas continues, “Don’t give me more hidden messages crap. You had the gall to pluck me out of my comfort zone and dump me right into the deep end. I want answers. Straight answers.”

“Your mother died.”

“What the _hell_ does that even _mean_?” Legolas groans, increasingly frustrated. “I _know_ my mother died. You’ve said it quite a number of times!”

“That’s the answer, darling.” 

“Explain.”

“Her death brought me news of your existence, _ion nín_ ; in the form of a birth certificate.” 

Legolas feels his jaw drop, half-chewed pancakes threaten to fall out of his mouth and back onto the plate. Thranduil gives him a disapproving grimace and Legolas snaps his jaw shut. “You mean, you never _knew_? About me?” 

“Did I not just say that, sweetheart?” Thranduil nonchalantly sips his coffee, but he sits so straight his posture betrays his tone. “Please do try not to eat like a dwarf.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

His father merely smiles, a sparkle illuminating in his eyes, captivating yet somehow infuriating. “You would understand if you read, my dear.”

 

-

 

His head is stuck between his knees and his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Legolas crouches against the wall and listens to the whirl of the washing machine at the break of dawn dressed in nothing but a pair of fresh boxers.

Shame is bubbling up inside him.

He regrets letting Aragorn stay over for the holidays.

 

-

 

Legolas’ eyes widen and his hands tremble with rage. He has a strong urge to tear up the pages—screw Thranduil and whatever importance of this book has for him! He is _not_ to be treated like some damn _fool!_

Legolas stomps into his father’s office, mindless of the work Thranduil was engrossed in.

“Don’t fuck with me!” he yells, slamming the tome onto Thranduil’s desk.

Thranduil raises a groomed eyebrow. “I take it you’ve read the first chapter.”

“Don’t take me for a bloody idiot, _Adar_! Like fuck I’m going to believe in goddamn _elves_ and Firstborns and immortality! _Fuck you_ —“

Thranduil’s hands move in a blur. He holds Legolas’ wrists firmly in his grasp and his ringed fingers tighten around them. With a sharp yank, Legolas is pulled forwards—his upper body leans across the desk, and Legolas is so close to his father’s face he can feel Thranduil’s breath against his skin.

“Is it?” Thranduil murmurs, his breath ghosting over Legolas’ lips. “Who’s to say what history is. You?”

Legolas grits his teeth.

“All we have are the recounts of our ancestors. But, darling, for a culture, language, and tales to be passed down from one generation to the next—there must be a starting ground. Is it really so unbelievable, _ion nín_?”

“Of course!” Legolas snaps. “Because I’m not a freaking madman!” 

But even as he says those words, his eyes dart to the side of Thranduil’s head, towards the small, slightly pointed end of his father’s ear poking out of silver-gold locks. When Thranduil starts to smile, Legolas averts his gaze quickly.

“You’ve noticed, darling. Do not try to delude yourself. Sure they are not as prominent as those mentioned in the book, but you’ve noticed, haven’t you, Legolas? How your own curve just the slightest at the tips.”

“Shut up,” Legolas grounds out. “Shut up.”

“We descend from the dying race of _Sindar_ , sweetheart. Remember that. Blood precedes all matters.”

Legolas squeezes his eyes shut. Wrenching himself out of his father’s grasp, Legolas tears out of the office and hides himself in his bedroom. His fingers shake madly and Legolas clasps his hands together, bringing them up to his lips. He screams into his fists and deludes himself into thinking he is only this affected by the unrealistic news.

 

-

 

He had dragged his weary body back from the examination hall when Legolas sees one of Thranduil’s clients for the first time. The man is tough, with rippling muscles bursting out of the short sleeves of his T-shirt. Thranduil’s client has a permanent scowl on his face, with a strong jaw and hard, steely eyes. Legolas feels a shiver course down his spine and quickly turns away, running down the hall and into his room.

When Thranduil enters two hours later, Legolas is shifting through his notes for his next exam.

“Why did you run away?” his father asks.

“Are you defending him?”

Thranduil sighs. “Yes.”

“What from?” Legolas snips, his tone harsh. “Sexual harassment? Rape? Murder?”

“Cool your tone, Legolas!” Thranduil barks. Legolas flinches in his seat, turning his head in the opposite direction of his father. “You judge based on appearance.”

“He’s obviously guilty of _something_!”

“Yes,” Thranduil drawls. “Acquisition and distribution of heroin.”

Legolas’ eyes widen and he spins his body around, gripping the back of his chair with his right hand. “He’s guilty and you’re _defending_ him?” At Thranduil’s grim silence, Legolas continues, “Do you do that with all your other clients? Defend them? Even the guilty who should have been serving their time in prison?”

“It is my job.” 

“ _Your job_? _You_ choose your clients! How can you accept those criminals?”

Thranduil leans against his door and lets out a chuckle. “My father was a prosecutor, did I not say that?” His eyes bear straight through Legolas’ body. “We may descend from Firstborns, but we do not have the same gift of immortality like our forefathers; we are mortal. Tell me, _ion nín_ , what is a mortal’s primal instinct?”

Legolas swallows around the lump in his throat, unable to come up with an answer.

His father pushes off the door and turns the knob. Thranduil looks over his shoulder and says, “Survival, darling.”

As the door clicks shut and sound of his father’s footsteps slowly fade away, Legolas realises that his father’s client may be scary, but Thranduil is _terrifying_.

His heart races.

 

-

 

“I got a job,” Legolas announces during one of their frequent midnight meals. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“University is going to be demanding,” Thranduil advises.

Legolas twists his lips. “I didn’t apply for any. I’m taking a gap year.”

Thranduil raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?” 

“Yeah. Figured I might as well.” Legolas shrugs. He scoops up a mouthful of buttery, sweet corn and chews with delight. “No point entering for one year and then going back. Makes it easier anyway.” 

Thranduil’s spoon clangs against the porcelain bowl as it slips out of his grip. Legolas tilts his head to the side in curiosity. Thranduil composes himself and clears his throat, resuming the meal. “You plan on returning? To your foster parents?” 

“Yeah, when I’m eighteen.” 

Thranduil leaves the dining room in such an abrupt way that all Legolas can do is blink, dumbfounded, in the silence.

 

-

 

The lounge looks as if a hurricane had powered through it. Several empty bottles of liquor litter the carpet, sheets of newspaper covering the rest. Thranduil lies in the eye of the storm; a lonely figure in the centre of destruction. Legolas worries at his lip and tiptoes his way through the mess. His gaze falls upon one particular page of the newspaper and he gingerly picks it up, scanning through the words. 

Thranduil’s client, a young suburban housewife, accused of the murder of her eleventh month old son and her neighbour’s three year old daughter, was found dead in her bathroom. Suicide, the newspaper reported. She was unable to handle the guilt.

“Oh fuck,” Legolas mumbles under his breath. He releases the page, letting it float and join the rest of the devastation, and quickly kneels down by his father’s side.

Thranduil’s eyes are open, but his lustrous blue eyes are clouded; there is an uneasiness in Legolas’ heart.

“ _Adar_?” he cautiously says, gently prodding at his father’s still body. 

Legolas waits.

Thranduil’s eyes start to refocus and Legolas releases a breath. His father’s gaze flicks over to him and Legolas feels Thranduil’s entire body tense. Legolas starts, suddenly worried about his father’s reaction; he’s never been around drunk people before, but he’s heard of violent tendencies amongst some and Legolas _really_ doesn’t know which category Thranduil falls under.

“Sweetheart,” Thranduil says, his voice rough and scratchy.

Legolas relaxes. “You should go to bed,” he suggests. “I doubt the floor’s very comfortable.”

Thranduil sways as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. Legolas instinctively has his hands out, ready to catch his father if he should fall. Thranduil waves his thoughtful gesture away and blinks, his movements slowed by the alcohol running through his veins.

“Can you stand?” Legolas asks, leaning back on his heels.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thranduil slurs in a really— _non-slurry_ way; it’s _weird_ , like a half-slur, yet not, and Legolas really should know by now that he will never fucking understand his father. “Say, darling, have you thought about taking the driving test?”

Legolas is baffled by the sudden twist in the conversation, but chalks it down to the alcohol and his bastard of a biological father. “No. Can’t be fucking bothered—city driving’s annoying as shit and I can take the trams nearly everywhere. ‘sides, no point, one year and I’m back in Perth—fewer hours to clock there.”

Fingers latch themselves on his chin and Legolas gasps. He flicks his eyes down towards neatly trimmed fingernails, edging further down to the decorative rings, and right back up into Thranduil’s eyes—fierce, crazed, and _forlorn_.

“No,” Thranduil says, the strong scent of booze in his breath. “You are not going to be another one.”

“What—“

Legolas is cut off when Thranduil covers his parted lips with his own. The kiss is intoxicating, but Legolas knows it has nothing to do with the taste of alcohol on his father’s lips and on his tongue. Warning signals blare in his mind: your _father,_ they wail, but Legolas pays them no attention. He’s _floating_ , soaring in the air, and Legolas tightens his grip on Thranduil’s shirt, hanging on for dear life, for he has lost all sense of direction and fears he will drift away into the galaxies—far, _far_ away.

Thranduil pushes him onto his back, deepening the kiss. Legolas hooks a leg over his father’s hip, and for the smallest of moments, despite his father’s aggression in his actions, he thinks he feels Thranduil _trembling_.

 

-

 

Legolas wakes on a bed that isn’t his own. The sheets beside him are cool and he knows he’s alone. Legolas pushes himself up, mindful of his nakedness, and scoots back, so that he is leaning comfortably against the pillows. The clothes they had thrown off in hastiness the night before are absent, _almost_ all evidence of their deed cleaned up—as if someone was ashamed and wished to forget everything. 

Legolas rubs his eyes on his arm and grapples for his phone on the bedside table. A glass of water is knocked over in his inattentiveness but Legolas doesn’t give a fuck. His phone finally in hand, Legolas pushes the button to get to the lock screen. It is flooded with notifications and instantly, Legolas takes note of the date— _oh._

He is seventeen.

 

-

 

Thranduil haunts his thoughts—more than he ever did before.

 

-

 

His father is a puzzle Legolas cannot even fathom solving.

He comes to this realisation as he is being pounded into the mattress, his fingers scratching deep into Thranduil’s back, and his body arching as he— _oh, right there, yes, yes—_ screams into completion. It is the fifth time they fall together and as always, Thranduil looks at him like he’s _afraid_ and Legolas cannot begin to understand _why_ , for it is _Thranduil_ who initiates—always, always. 

_What are you thinking of,_ Adar _?_ Legolas thinks. _What am I to you?_

-

 

“She was innocent.” 

“Who?”

“The woman.”

“The _who—_ oh,” Legolas absently says, remembering. A beat of silence. “That sucks.”

 

-

 

“I read about the Fellowship of the Ring,” Legolas comments. “Legolas’ father’s name is Thranduil. Such a coincidence don’t you think? Do you think we’re—reincarnations?” 

“How can that be? They do not die, darling.”

Legolas chuckles, the carrot in his mouth turning bitter as seconds ticked by. “No, I suppose they don’t. What do you reckon they’re doing now?”

Thranduil reaches across the dining table, holding Legolas’ hand in his. His father plays with his fingers before lifting his hand and pressing a soft kiss on the back. “Wherever they reside on this very day, I’m sure they are not alone. Neither are we, for you are here by my side.”

“You’re my father.” _Our blood is one,_ Legolas thinks. 

The smile on Thranduil’s face is breathtaking and heartbreaking at the same time. “That does not mean it is always enough.”

 

-

 

The important question comes to him much later: Who is Thranduil to him?

 

-

 

They were careless; too close, too fucking _close_. Legolas squeezes his eyes shut and swears profusely, in a way that would make even the hardiest of sailors blush. He had always known it was a bad idea—sneaking around like thieves in the night, but his adoptive mother had assured him, and foolishly, he listened, and had believed.

He can still feel the imprints of slender fingers on his wrists; they are going to form bruises, Legolas knows for sure. He can still feel Thranduil’s chest shuddering against his, as his father leant down and laid his head on Legolas’ shoulder. The sharp, quick inhales Thranduil took and the cracking in his voice, Legolas can still hear it in his heart.

_“Not enough.”_

 

-

 

Legolas brings his knees up to his chest as he sits on the bed, scrolling through his messages. Aragorn’s are that of excitement and ecstasy, Gimli’s aloof—but if read between the lines, one can feel the warm sentiment, Faramir’s curious and joyful—Legolas tosses his phone to the side and flops onto the mattress.

There is a storm brewing within him; Legolas feels himself being pulled on two ends, and his body stretching, _stretching_ so much that a single strike of lightning can shatter him into pieces—like broken glass drifting in the rough sea.

 

-

 

Thranduil’s pace is frantic and there is desperation behind every push of his hips.

Legolas swallows the emotions poured into him, but he is so— _empty_.

 

-

 

He turns the page over. It is blank; he’s reached the end of the book. Legolas slowly runs his fingers over the brown-tinted page. He thinks of his father and how _he_ must have felt reaching the end.

There is a remarkable sense of loneliness.

 

-

 

_“Legolas, honey? Have you decided? What is your wish?”_

Legolas tightens his grip on his phone. His adoptive mother’s voice is filled with anticipation and longing. He knows the exact words she dreams to hear, he _knows_ what he should be saying. Rather, as Legolas licks his dry lips and opens his mouth to speak, words no one imagined would pour out did.

“I’m staying here, Mum. I’m not going back. I’m staying.”

_“Is that so?”_

Legolas can hear his foster mother’s voice crack as she struggles to hold back the flood of tears. His heart clenches and he whispers into the device, “Yeah.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry. I love you. I’m sorry.”

_“I l-love you too, honey.”_

The line drops.

 

-

 

Legolas waits for his father with a plate of lasagne in his hands. Thranduil steps through the front door, shedding the outermost layer of his suit in a non-verbal complaint about the heat. Their eyes meet and Legolas smiles, holding out the plate with one hand and a fork in the other.

“Welcome home.”

The corners of Thranduil’s lips slowly curl up. “I’m home.”

_It’s alright,_ Legolas thinks, as he gives his father a tight embrace. _He’s worth it. He’s worth all of it._

 


End file.
